[ Illithid logic works in Jarlaxle's favour for once - there is no reason for them to scatter all his belongings across the ship's various containers, so they did not. More effort and more work for no discernible reward - and, besides, once you were an illithid such things ceased to matter to you, as you were no longer yourself, and so any successful candidates would ignore such things.
He wonders how long the tadpole has been there, idly. ]
If it were to happen to anyone, it would happen to you. Let a roll of chance's dice alter the board, [ he quotes sardonically. The words are an old favourite of the more reckless kind of Menzoberranzan drow, and Jarlaxle is no exception to that recklessness.
He listens for movement, but it is hard to discern among the ship's constant organic noises and the sounds of whatever had rattled the ship enough to interfere with its running. He hears the distant calls of dragons.
A psionic sweep would let him identify hostiles, but then, they would also identify him in turn. He is loathe to give up that small advantage of their captors not knowing they are awake, so he refrains, despite the nagging urge to do so. (The tadpole or simply his own reasoning? He doesn't know.)
He glances back at Jarlaxle, and the sight of him is reassuring. Even if he knows Jarlaxle is not much more confident than he is here, it is still a relief. ]
I will feel far better after I have killed a few. [ There is no real emotion in his tone; it is a prediction of how the future will go, not a threat. A threat would imply he wasn't planning to go through with it.
Anger simmers just below the surface, that old and familiar feeling. A useful tool. If he feels it, he needs not think or feel anything else.
(He wonders, vaguely, somewhere in the back of his brain, if the unwanted guest in Jarlaxle's head has made him any more apt at sensing, if he can feel that anger radiating from him like heat. A question for later, perhaps.)
Without another word, he steps through the door. One illithid, and a few devourers; far better than the mob of illthids and their pets that had overtaken him. The few small flashes of that previous encounter only fuel his considerable rage, and he channels that into launching a psionic assault at the new target of his ire, the illithid, who immediately becomes occupied with countering his vicious attack and thus cannot divert its attention from him - or divert thought to attacking Jarlaxle, which he considers just as important.
(Clearly the eyepatch alone had not been enough to prevent Jarlaxle's predicament. He has no desire to gamble even more in a situation where things have gone most unfavorably for both of them.)
He trusts Jarlaxle to do what he thinks is best. ]
no subject
He wonders how long the tadpole has been there, idly. ]
If it were to happen to anyone, it would happen to you. Let a roll of chance's dice alter the board, [ he quotes sardonically. The words are an old favourite of the more reckless kind of Menzoberranzan drow, and Jarlaxle is no exception to that recklessness.
He listens for movement, but it is hard to discern among the ship's constant organic noises and the sounds of whatever had rattled the ship enough to interfere with its running. He hears the distant calls of dragons.
A psionic sweep would let him identify hostiles, but then, they would also identify him in turn. He is loathe to give up that small advantage of their captors not knowing they are awake, so he refrains, despite the nagging urge to do so. (The tadpole or simply his own reasoning? He doesn't know.)
He glances back at Jarlaxle, and the sight of him is reassuring. Even if he knows Jarlaxle is not much more confident than he is here, it is still a relief. ]
I will feel far better after I have killed a few. [ There is no real emotion in his tone; it is a prediction of how the future will go, not a threat. A threat would imply he wasn't planning to go through with it.
Anger simmers just below the surface, that old and familiar feeling. A useful tool. If he feels it, he needs not think or feel anything else.
(He wonders, vaguely, somewhere in the back of his brain, if the unwanted guest in Jarlaxle's head has made him any more apt at sensing, if he can feel that anger radiating from him like heat. A question for later, perhaps.)
Without another word, he steps through the door. One illithid, and a few devourers; far better than the mob of illthids and their pets that had overtaken him. The few small flashes of that previous encounter only fuel his considerable rage, and he channels that into launching a psionic assault at the new target of his ire, the illithid, who immediately becomes occupied with countering his vicious attack and thus cannot divert its attention from him - or divert thought to attacking Jarlaxle, which he considers just as important.
(Clearly the eyepatch alone had not been enough to prevent Jarlaxle's predicament. He has no desire to gamble even more in a situation where things have gone most unfavorably for both of them.)
He trusts Jarlaxle to do what he thinks is best. ]